


Mostly

by Robotamputee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Purgatory, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robotamputee/pseuds/Robotamputee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Purgatory can be terrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mostly

**Author's Note:**

> Despite how totally irrelevant this fic now is to the show as a whole, in the interest of completion I couldn't _not_ post it. So enjoy the stroll down memory lane, back to a time when everything was Destiel hugs and "I'm not leaving here without you" and only _most_ things hurt.

Purgatory can be terrifying. Between the hunting and evading and inevitable clash of teeth and claws and stone, there's no time for comfort or peace. Just quick breaths stolen while your pursuer slowly circles in closer, a splash of dirty river water to your face while you wash a monster's blood from your hands (never your blood, or his, and for that you find time to be thankful, before you hear a howl behind you and you're off, wind stinging your still-dripping cheeks). Your body aches, always, but your heart's never felt stronger, doing double time to keep you body alive, taking orders from a brain so overloaded with adrenaline it's not even sure why being alive matters anymore. All you know is you have to be alive to run, and you must never stop running.

Mostly, though, Purgatory is boring. Between all that hunting and evading and clashing is a lot of waiting. Stagnant hours spent full-body still with ears pricked to see if that howl was the wind or your bloody, inglorious death come to call. Short minutes spent with numb hands reaching for your most recent half-assed fire before it sputters out and leaves you cold and blind. Agonizing, endless days spent waiting to see where your next meal will come from, and not nearly enough time spent savouring it before you throw it back up again (two day old carrion is a bitch to metabolize). Of course, it's only in the quiet moments that you find the time to enjoy the little things. Like the gash on the back of your hand that's been leaking pus for three days now, or the sweat perpetually pooling in the cracks of your eyelids and making your vision blur. There's only too much time spent huddled at the back of a cave, or trussed up in a tree, or crouched among eight foot tall grass, with nothing to do but stare out into the darkness and try to remember life before the running, before the fear. And, when you fail to remember any such thing, to count your breaths and just be grateful that you still can. Dean knows, in moments like these, that even if he doesn't die today all he has to look forward to tomorrow is more of the same.

Except that, sometimes, Purgatory can be beautiful. Dean has trouble believing it, what with the mindless killing machines prowling the night, not to mention that every bed of flowers he sees just reminds him of a grave marker. But Cas is still a few rounds short of a magazine and so every now and then, while they're running through some hazy sketch of a forest, he'll tug at Deans elbow and point off to the right. Instead of flinching and immediately taking off in the other direction, as he might once have done, Dean spares a glance where Cas is pointing. Through the trees he can pick out the bright sparkle of sunlight on still water, and the distant sound of songbirds high up in the branches. Just for a moment, then it's lost to the sound of their panting and the most recent slathering hordes ripping up the ground to get to them. Dean throws Cas a tight smile, and has time to see the small one he gets in return before they're squeezing their way between rocky outcroppings and out the other side, leaving their much larger pursuers behind (for now). A tug at his elbow, that's all it'll be, then a finger pointing out a perfectly unassuming squirrel flitting from tree to tree; a single red rose emerging from a tangle of brambles on the side of a hill; a butterfly, pausing to rest on a rock by their heads while they try desperately to rest.

Dean doesn't know what Cas is trying to accomplish by doing this. Sometimes he thinks Cas doesn't realise how bad things are, how fine a line they tread between life and death. And sometimes he thinks Cas knows perfectly well their situation, and just doesn't care. Still, whenever he feels that tug at his elbow he rolls his eyes and glances over at whatever new beauty Cas has managed to pick out from the desolation and fear around them. Then he smiles at Cas, and Cas smiles back. And if Dean finds a new burst of energy shortly thereafter, he chalks it up to shock and desperation.

Later, when they're sitting together sucking rain water from palm leaves, Dean reaches over and tugs at Cas's elbow, pointing out the brilliant red sunset stretching across the sky. And as Dean feels Cas's dirty trenchcoat between his fingers, sees the stubble growing incongruously along the angel's jaw, maybe he'll think that his last day on Earth was months ago, that there's nothing now but the hunting and evading and inevitable clash of teeth and claws and stone. Maybe he'll think that spending day after day crouched beside his angel, hungry and tired and waiting for death, is nothing but tedium and torture.

But maybe he'll look at that sunset, and feel the breeze on his face, and think that sometimes, Purgatory isn't all bad. Maybe he'll turn to look at Cas, and see his smile, and think that it could be a whole lot worse. The urge to voice those thoughts tugs at him, like Cas's hand on his sleeve; and, sometimes, he almost does, just to see the look on Cas's face if he did.

But mostly he just smiles back.


End file.
